


Strigiformes

by Elfgrunge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jon, Gracious overuse of Owl Wikipedia, Hugs, I Swear I'm Not A Monsterfucker, M/M, Monster Jon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 07:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrunge/pseuds/Elfgrunge
Summary: He should have known this was coming. He knew what happened to the others. Saw their forms shift and distort and become wholly not themselves. He didn't want that. But he supposed he didn't get a choice. He was the Archivist, after all





	Strigiformes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desert-lurker (wolfygoeswild)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfygoeswild/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a drabble...
> 
> Title is just the scientific term for owl because I'm unoriginal

Jon was not an idiot. Well. That was debatable, actually. But he was not ignorant enough to let this get past him. There were only so many times he could brush off, both figuratively and literally, the cloud of feathers that seemed to follow him everywhere.

It had been slight, at first. One in is hair, brown and white and dappled, almost blending in to his own. He really needed a haircut. Did the embodiments of primal, terrifying fears get haircuts? 

But it kept happening. One morning he woke up, from an admittedly lacking amount of sleep, convinced something had clawed his pillow open in the night and sent its contents flying everywhere. But no, it remained whole and untorn, wedged in the corner of the cot in the archives. This was when he knew he should be afraid. 

He had seen what happened to the others. Jude, body melting, warping, running like liquid and scalding like fire, molten to her core. Jared, a horrifying embodiment of all his patron was, lurching towards him on legs that were not his own. Jane, and the things that buried deep into her pitted and marred flesh, making themselves one with the remains of the woman who heard their singing and called it home.

He had the spooky mind powers, thoughts that flowed into his brain no matter how hard he tried to dam the torrent. He had the near death experience, six months trapped not in his own mind but the worst parts of those of others. He supposed he had one item left on the checklist then. He absentmindedly wondered if he’d get a membership card. 

So this was it. The day Jonathan Sims finally became the monster he already was. 

Hunched over his desk, he could feel the pressure. Building in his shoulder blades, it was chillingly familiar. Except, what once wanted in now wanted out. He broke his own silent promise not to cry, tears streaming hot and heavy from eyes that saw too much. 

He supposed it was ironic, really. The owl had always been a symbol of the institute, inquisitive eyes carved into wood and hanging above Rosie’s desk at the entrance. He’d heard Martin once refer to it as ‘Cute’. He should have seen this coming. He who sees everything, right? Typical. 

His fingers were digging into the soft wood of the desk now, a path beginning to form where the too-sharp nails tried to disperse his pain into something, anything else. 

He knew he wouldn’t die from this. Couldn’t die from this. He wasn’t sure, when all was said and done, if that was a positive or not. There was nothing to be done afterwards. Out of everyone he’d been trying to save, he never thought he’d care so much for the loss of himself. It wasn’t quite self love he was learning, more a fear of what he would be when he no longer recognised what looked back with eyes too probing. 

There was a tearing.Of fabric and of flesh and of all things that comprised his being. The blackout pain stopped the thoughts, at least. Bitter solace. 

‘Jon? Jon!’ 

He grunted a response before the door to his office was flung open, light pouring in. He hadn’t even noticed it was dark. It still looked the same. A new perk. 

‘Oh god..’ was the only thing Martin choked out, a whisper against the hand flying up to clamp over his mouth. 

Yeah, that was about right. That’s what he should have expected. You find a monster sitting in your bosses office, you can’t act like nothing's wrong. 

What Jon didn’t expect, though, was for Martin to slowly make his way forward, lean over the desk and cup Jon’s chin in his hands, tilting his face up so their eyes met. Jon blinked at him, for lack of a better word, owlishly. 

‘It’s okay,’ Martin whispered, one hand moving to stroke through Jon’s hair. ‘You’re gona be okay.’

‘Quite frankly, Martin, I don’t think that’s true,’ Jon mumbled, bitter and sarcastic and almost a laugh. 

There was a nervous energy between them, neither quite sure what to do for fear of spooking the other. Martin kept stroking his hair, thumb running over a feather that had made its place at his temple. Jon finally managed to staunch the tears.

He stood up, awkwardly, Martin’s hands falling away. The wings were certainly something. Cream and tawny, they almost matched the darkened brown and stressful grey of his hair. They twitched awkwardly, not quite his doing, bits of fabric still clinging on from the torn back of what had been his favourite cardigan. 

He slowly, carefully, spread them, raising his arms to match. Gently curved, they brushed off the walls, making everything seem smaller, the space pressing down on him, likeness too close to the coffin, too similar to the buried- 

His hurtling train of thought and fear was overturned when Martin reached out to stroke one. Mesmerised, he didn’t even seem to realise what he was doing until Jon suddenly jerked back, causing a stumbling through of apologies. 

‘Oh! Sorry that was- sorry. Does it- do they hurt?’ Martin stammered, concern once again plastered on his face. 

‘Not anymore,’ he replied, ruffling them experimentally. They felt odd, like they’d always been there, extensions of himself he was just regaining feeling in, like standing up after sitting too long on a numb leg. The left unceremoniously knocked a pile of files off his desk. Maybe not that familiar, then. 

He skirted awkwardly around the desk, careful not to add to the mess. He didn’t know what to do next, really, situation still overwhelming despite the tensions de-escalation. 

He stopped worrying so much when Martin pulled him into a hug, hands resting on his lower back. Jon, still considerably shorter, face buried in Martins neck, hugged him back. The wings awkwardly engulfed them both. 

‘We’re going to stop- whatever. Whatever these powers are. The fourteen- or the fifteen, we’ll stop them and we’re going to get our goddamn lives back, okay? You’re going to be you again and- well,’ Martin paused, and Jon could feel, pressed against him, his heart hammering in his chest. ‘The Beholding can go fuck itself.’ 

Jon nodded against him. He didn’t know whether to believe him, didn’t Know either, but he could only hope Martin was right.

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea where I was going with this and it still makes very little sense. I just wanted to write something to go with some art the wonderful @vissercomplex on tumblr did and this is the result. And also I had to throw Martin in, because y'know, love and adore him. 
> 
> I'm elf-grunge and radiosandrecordings on tumblr if you too also enjoy treading the line between 'This would look cool' and 'monsterfucker' and want to yell


End file.
